Sentimentality
by quorra laraex
Summary: Awkward moments are inevitable when you're two hormonal-driven teenagers living together. — soul&maka fluff, rated M for drinking and sexual references


**A/N:** rated M for drinking, minor drug-usage, and sexual references

* * *

sentimentality

Soul Evans is not going to lie: it's extremely difficult preventing awkward situations from following him while living with a particular female who (is only) supposed to hold the title as his meister whilst being two (hormonal-driven) maturing teenagers. It's hard—too hard—and the worst thing is that he never asks for any of this to happen. It just _does_, and he begins to believe all that fate shit Stein had absently taught their class about when he somehow combined the subject of Romeo and Juliet with Soul Resonance was real all along. He would easily overlook their past encounters, but there's too many—_way too many_—to forget them all.

He looks over at his partner, sitting horizontally on an armchair, her bare legs hanging off the edge of the arm, a book in front of her porcelain face. He smiles relieved. She's Maka Albarn, his meister, and (unless fate was sending different messages for him, and he was just horribly mistaken) she would always be his.

—

He remembers the first time he kissed her.

It wasn't "magical", with them standing on the roof top with the fluorescence of the moonlight along with a crowd of stars as their only source of illumination. It's not the type he planned out, nor did she expect in anyway. It wasn't after a dinner for two on Valentine's day nor was it during a picnic along with a stroll in the park. It was after they won a battle, both were full of confidence in victory. As he turned back into his human form, he looked at her. She was smiling, her hair high up on her head, the ends dangling with length. A grin painted on her face and a light trickle of sweat falling from the side of her forehead. She was staring at the solemn tiny soul of their nemesis, and Soul didn't know why he did it, but he walked up to her with his hands jammed in his pockets and kissed her. It was a small kiss, and it was kind of accidental because he did it so absently—and it wasn't exactly something expected. It was under a dim street lamp on a warm night, not on the Eifel Tower of Paris with perfect orchestral violin music playing behind them. No, it was nothing like that.

The two were simply heading out to a burger joint to eat dinner on a regular Thursday night because he had forgotten it was his turn to cook dinner, and there weren't any ingredients for any kind of meal unless the two wanted to suffer eating cheese and crackers that night. A simple battle awaited them as they strolled down the streets of Death City, and with a simple slash and whip of her arm, it was gone, and there, Soul planted one on her. He didn't mean to, it was uncool, but he did it anyways because it stroke him as uncontrollable. And thus his hands were stuffed all the way to the ends of his pockets when it happened, and after a nanosecond, he trailed over to the uneaten soul and blatantly glomped it with his sharp teeth.

He tried refraining from staring at her face after the slight peck, mostly because he was afraid of her reaction; whether she was to hit him with her hand or book, or anything, really. But it suddenly became obvious that she wasn't truly indignant to his actions because when he swallows the soul and the tastiness seams down his throat she's already four steps in front of him, reminding him that the joint closes early with her normal feminine voice. They never speak of it and they both know it's a closed topic, even when all they can do is reminisce about the moment with flushing faces.

—

Soul recalls the first 'dream' about her. No, that isn't specific enough. He's had plenty of dreams about her, about losing her—many nightmares, to be frank; in or without a battle. But that's only been caused as a side effect of the Black Blood. This time was different, in _all_ levels.

He could have predicted this to happen, if he thought hard enough or actually tried analyzing the subject, but he was too lazy too. Any boy would have been aroused if they had become a death scythe too, especially when the time came where she had to ride him when it was required to practice flying. He remembered thinking that everything mandatory was stupid, but his perspective suddenly changed when he realized he was caught and held in between her legs. Of course it was the pole part of his weapon form, but _shit_, he remembered thinking. He tried removing the thought during their first practice flight, but the fact that he was flat against her area crept up on him. It was drastically bothersome, and Soul knew his testosterone level had probably hit a high as he couldn't focus on their wavelengths, and both of them ended up falling. The whole time he was secretly praying Maka didn't intrude his boyish thoughts then, but a tiny little voice in his mind told him otherwise.

His dream was similar, except they _weren't_ practicing flying—

And the only things falling were her _clothes_—

—with his pole in between the gap of her legs, once again.

The white-haired teen wakes up with an uncomfortable bulge in his pants.

—

No one could forget the time she drank for the very first time. Maka Albarn, goodie-two-shoes, straight-A and straight-edge, smartass had her first dose of vodka. Of course, being the usual stubborn brat that she is, it took some time before she let the liquid slip down her throat.

"Oh c'mon, Maka," he tempted with a grin. Hey emerald eyes were filled with everything distressed and everyone knew she felt unsure—but she was always unsure when it was risk taking. Unless they were in a fight, but that was a completely different story.

They were propped up at the bar of Tsubaki's apartment during Black Star's party with the rest of the gang, prodding for the nervous wreck to inhale drinks if she didn't want to of bongs. It was one or another, and Maka was frightened she was tempted into too much peer pressure.

"It's alright, Maka, it's not like you're going to die or anything," Liz mutters while re-applying her lipstick. It was easy to distinguish which bottles or glasses of alcohol were hers since they were all stained with a blood red lip print.

Tsubaki nods in agreement, which Maka found strange because she would have thought she didn't drink either, but she was obviously mistaken. She grips the tiny glass with two fingers and throws the bitter taste in her, followed by another gulp of orange soda that Kidd had slid over to her on the polished marble counter. The taste was disgusting, like they all said, but she felt superb, because she's never done this thing before, and soon she could feel it. It was kind of like poison in her blood, the venom attacking her veins, but it surprisingly felt _good_ and exceptional. She barely registered that she was attacking the drinks one after another. Soul felt responsible to stop her after her seventh cup, she was becoming as insane as the time they combined the Black Blood when fighting Chrona. She was way too drunk.

He had to admit it, though. She was amusing to watch when she was like this. The blonde scythe wielder was all over the place, either screaming at the most unnecessary things or laughing hysterically loud with Patty or even drumming the piano—and that's where Soul stops her. He can't handle the intolerable sounds of incessant pounding on the keys. If music was the power, she was destroying it. He grabs her by the waist and throws her body onto his shoulder, as if she's a sack of potatoes, holding her that way to prevent her from freeing from his grip. She's kicking at him nonstop demanding him to put her down and he can smell the strong scent of booze from her lips as she's struggling.

She's hanging lazily next to his back since he still refuses to put her down on his walk back to their place. It's dark out, the moon creeping above them, and Maka gives up on her attempts to be freed. She's mumbling now, but he can't comprehend what she's saying. She goes on and on, but Soul isn't a bit curious as to what her drunken words are until a phrase makes his own thoughts come to a halt.

"I just like you, Soul," she's saying so indecipherably. Her tone is serious now, not running with adrenaline like it was at the party. He opens up his hearing a bit more to catch more words. "I don't ever want you to be like Papa, what he did to my mom—you can't do that to me, okay?"

Hearing her so vulnerably soft and bland made him feel odd inside as it became subtly open that this was one of her biggest fears. He sighed, "I know, I know, Maka."

"You promise?" Her voice picked up _a bit_ of austerity.

"Cross my heart."

And Soul knows the little conversation they had that night would never be remembered by her.

—

He walked in on her before, when she was in the shower.

It's not like he was going to _do_ anything, his bladder was just completely full and he had that urge to let it out. He continuously knocked at the door, yelling for her to hurry up, but she scolded him with a simple 'I told you if you needed to go, you could have went before I got in-_yaddayadda_'. As much as he tried resisting the impulse to urinate, he gave in unlocking the door with a simple twist of one of Maka's clips that Blair had taught him for emergencies. He was going to be quick, without Maka's notice. He shut the door with a quiet hush and made his way over to the toilet where he unzipped and let out.

He's intrigued by the way she hums in the heated area, the place was filled with warm smoke and her scent—vanilla with a hint of jasmine and he couldn't stop himself from inhaling the sweet aroma. Before he knew it, the shower shut off and he could see Maka's bare arm shuffling around trying to reach for her green towel on the rack. Being deviant and teasing, he grabbed her towel and quietly hurdled out of the bathroom. She was going to kill him, but it was worth the watch.

"_Soul_!" she's screaming his name, irritated. "You dumbass, give it back!"

He ignored her muffled screams, laughing at the fact she was stuck in the shower. He didn't expect her to come out until he'd give her the towel back, which he would in a couple of hours, just for amusement. He grabbed a bag of unopened potato chips and a can of coke when he was strolling down the corridor to his room, unaware that Maka had wrapped her wet self with the shower curtain and practically flew from the bathroom, running into him whilst doing so. The redness creeping up on both of their faces were inevitable, but she brushed the embarrassment off as she clung to the curtain and hit him with her free hand.

"You _idiot_!"

And with that, the excruciating pain in the center of his head burned while she hurried into her bedroom.

—

She catches him one time.

Soul had never, ever, ever turned so red in his life.

She was only going to return the laundry she has done for him, and the door was _unlocked_. So if it ever came up to it, the only person to blame was the Evans boy. It's normal to do these kinds of things, he's seventeen, after-all. It's not like he asked her to come into his room; she didn't even fucking _knock_, she just had the nerve to barge in with a handful of neat folded and ironed apparel hanging on her left arm.

She recognizes what's going on and before she can even respond or show any hint of recognition, he's pushing her out of the room, dropping his clothes while doing so. They're both flustered and cherry in the face and she's (sort of) indignant to his so-called doings. She doesn't mean to be a creep or anything, but she hears him muttering on the other side of the door. She leans in, pressing her ear against the smooth, cold wood.

"So uncool, so uncool, so uncool," he whispers on and on to himself.

He hears her giggling outside and he has this sudden drive to never show his face to her ever.

He had to do his own laundry from then on.

—

Blair simply enjoys teasing the two, as if she has this fetish with pulling the knots. She says something that has the power to make the atmosphere awkward every time she's in their apartment. She wields the entire tension and heat of the air.

Having dreams of Maka became frequently usual, and it came to him almost once or twice a week to his utter dismay. Not that they weren't _pleasurable_—it was just—_strange_. And unfortunately, the odds were against him since it became evident he was having these dreams because of Blair's noting senses and morning visits.

There she was, walking around his bed with a wicked smirk pried onto her lips as she curled a purple tress with her manicured finger, snickering slightly at the bump in the center of the blanket. Before she does anything, she can hear him slightly murmuring something in his sleep. Her brows arch in confusion as she listens to him.

"_Mmm_aka," his voice stirs back into a snore as he turns to his side and is abruptly woken up. He rubs his eyes before stretching into a yawn and fixing the damned erection when he realizes the cat is in his room with a devilish grin on her face. At least she wasn't seducing him this time. "What do you want?"

"Oh nothing," she laughs as she strolls out. Before she makes it to the crack of the door, her head pivots in his direction to fire a condescending smirk, "I'm excited to see Maka's reaction when I tell her you've been getting boned thinkin' of her."

_Shit_.

Or the time he and the blonde were doing their homework; or well, she was determinedly writing answers in her composition book while he lazily preoccupied himself with a pencil next to her on the couch. Blair had strode into their living room with another knowing smile and an unnecessary statement.

"So is this what you guys do when I'm gone? I seriously thought you'd be in the bedroom."

There was even a day when she came home with a package of condoms and threw it at Soul nonchalantly.

"It's always good to have protection," said she.

—

His crimson eyes hadn't left her this entire time, and right when he shakes his thoughts back into reality, he notices her pulling the book off her stomach and sliding it onto the wooden coffee table next to her. She's standing up and stretching, revealing her bare stomach and he realizes she's wearing his old mustard and black jacket unzipped. She glances up at him, meeting his quiet gaze and saying a soft good night as she walks past him, slow enough for him to get a whiff of the sweet jasmine that clung to her skin.

If fate really is on his side, he knows he's probably the luckiest boy alive.


End file.
